Behaving Badly

‘And what about Caroline Mulholland? Did she ring you?’

‘Yes, she did. I went out to the house. She was nice.’

‘She’s as rich as Croesus, apparently—and married to this rather handsome MP.’

‘Ye-es,’ I said, ‘that’s right. I met him…briefly. In fact I’m going back there tomorrow—to judge their dog show.’

‘Really? How did that come about?’

I explained.

‘Oh you’ll do it much better than Trinny and Susannah,’ she snorted. ‘Can you imagine how rude they’d be! “What does that Border collie think it’s got on?” she said, imitating Trinny. “Makes it look like a scrubber! And that Old English sheepdog looks naff in those pink leggings, doesn’t it Susannah?” “Oh yes Trinny, a complete dog’s dinner, and that springer’s arse is far too big for that skirt.” You’ll be much more tactful,’ Daisy giggled.

‘I’ll try. But I’ve never done anything like this before.’

‘You’ll probably pick up some new clients,’ she said. ‘It’s worth going just for that.’

‘That’s the main reason why I’m doing it,’ I lied. ‘Plus the fact that it’s in a good cause. So what treats are in store for you this weekend?’

‘Well, I’ve got a blissful day tomorrow. In the morning I’m going Tyrolean traversing.’

‘You’re going where?’

‘Tyrolean traversing. It’s a method mountain climbers use for crossing crevasses, but a small group of us are just going to do it above an old stone quarry in Kent.’

‘From what height?’

‘Oh, only about a hundred feet or so.’

‘You’re mad.’

‘I’m not.’

‘You are—you’re crazy, Daisy. I’ve often said it.’

‘But apparently it’s really good fun. Basically, you suspend cables across the gap, with a sort of pulley thing, then you take a running jump off the edge—’

‘You do what?’

‘But then your harness takes the strain and instead of plummeting to the ground you find yourself bouncing along the wire like a puppet on a string. It’ll be fabulous.’

‘Just thinking about it makes me feel sick.’

‘And it’s supposed to be much more fun than abseiling because it gives you that lovely feeling of falling into empty space.’

‘Uhhhh.’

‘Then on Saturday night, Nigel’s taking me out, but—’ there was a theatrical pause, ‘—he won’t tell me where. He says it’s going to be a “very special evening”. Very special,’ she added happily. ‘That’s what he said.’

‘Hmmm,’ I said. ‘Do you think it might…mean something?’

‘Well, yes, I really think that it might. Anyway, enjoy your fete,’ she said cheerfully.

‘I shall do my best,’ I replied.

The next morning I awoke feeling awful, having slept very badly. I’d had this really weird dream. In it, I was in a theatre somewhere—I don’t know which one, but it seemed to be quite big—and the curtain had just gone up. And I seemed to be playing Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz for some reason, with Herman as Toto, and Daisy as the good witch Glinda, and my mother as Auntie Em. And Alexander was in it too. He was the Lion.

‘My goodness, what a fuss you’re making. Why you’re nothing but a great big coward!’

‘You’re right. I am a coward. I haven’t any courage at all. I even scare myself.’

And then Nigel appeared as the Tin Man.

‘Don’t you think that the Wizard could help him too?’

‘I don’t see why not. Why don’t you come with us? We’re on our way to see the Wizard of Oz to get him a heart, and him a brain, and I’m sure he could give you some courage.’

So we did go to see the Wizard, who, to my amazement, was played by my dad. And then I suddenly realized that it wasn’t Alexander playing the Lion any more, it was Jimmy, which confused me. And I was wondering, in the dream, where Alexander had gone, and whether he minded being replaced by Jimmy, because the Lion’s a really good part; and I was hoping that the audience wouldn’t notice, and I was beginning to feel quite stressed about it all—and that’s when I woke up. With my head full of Jimmy. The thought of speaking to him at the fete made me feel sick. To distract myself I spent the morning answering e-mails—I’m constantly amazed at the things people ask.

‘I’m wondering if my cat is obsessive-compulsive as it constantly washes itself,’ said the first. No it’s not—that’s what cats do. ‘How can I get my tarantula to be more friendly? ‘ asked another. I’m afraid that’s just tarantula behaviour—you can’t. ‘My African Grey parrot keeps telling me to “Fuck off!” Do you think it really means it? ‘ No.

Sometimes people like to tell me the ‘funny’ thing their animals do. ‘My donkey brays backwards—it goes Haw-Hee.’ ‘My horse can count up to ten.’ ‘My Persian cat plays the piano—it runs up and down the keyboard.’ ‘My mynah bird can sing “Heartbreak Hotel”.’ Suddenly another e-mail arrived—from my dad. It contained the usual stuff about the weather in Palm Springs (great), the celebrities he’d seen playing golf (lots), and the Hollywood gossip he’d overheard (scandalous). He said he hoped that my new practice had got off to a good start. Then I got to the final sentence and gasped. ‘I also want to tell you that a few days ago I made a decision which will no doubt come asquite a surprise to you—to return to the UK. I’ve been offered a very challenging job in East Sussex—’ East Sussex!! ‘—running a brand new golf club which, as luck, or Fate, would have it, is located very near Alfriston.’ Alfriston? Mum would go mad. ‘So I’d be grateful if you could break this tragic news to your mother as gently as possible, Miranda.’

I e-mailed him back. ‘I’ll try!’

At half past one I put Herman on the lead, my head still reeling from the news about my father, then we left for Little Gateley. The journey was easier this time as I knew the way, and I arrived just after two, my stomach in knots. The gates were festooned with bunches of balloons, like aerial bouquets, and there was a poster saying Summer Fete! There was no sign of Jimmy’s Jaguar—I guessed that he wanted to avoid seeing me. As I parked under a tree I could see frantic activity in the garden, where a number of trestle tables were being set up. Herman and I strolled across the lawn in the sunshine towards the book stalls, home-made-cake stalls and bric-a-brac stalls. There were stalls selling local crafts and toys, a striped marquee marked ‘Refreshments’, and nearby a brass band was tuning up. There was face-painting, skittles and a tombola, and someone was setting up a slow bicycle race. Strung between the trees were necklaces of bunting—it all looked very festive and gay. Suddenly I saw Caroline coming out of the house followed by Trigger and the two Westies.

‘Hi, Miranda, great to see you,’ she smiled. ‘What a sweet dachshund,’ she added admiringly. ‘No, Trigger! Don’t do that to him you rude boy!’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I’m going to have the brute firmly on the lead today.’

‘Any improvement yet?’ I asked her, as Trigger leaped about by the flowerbeds, snapping at bees.

‘Well, we’re working on it. But I don’t want to tempt fate. Tempt fete!’ she giggled. ‘I hope people will be tempted. James is going to be late,’ she added. ‘He’s driving down from Billington after his weekly surgery—he’s a politician.’

‘Is he?’ I said.

‘He should be here in about twenty minutes—I do hope he turns up on time. Anyway, that’s where the dog show will be,’ she indicated a makeshift arena near the tennis court. ‘That part will start just after three. Go and get some tea,’ she suggested amiably, ‘while I man the gates. At least the weather’s held,’ she said as she looked at the sky. ‘It’s bliss, isn’t it?’ she added happily, as she walked away.

‘Mm,’ I said. ‘It is.’

By now people were arriving, many trailing children and dogs. The brass band was playing ‘Daisy, Daisy…’ and I was just looking at the paperbacks on the book stall when I suddenly heard Jimmy’s voice.

‘Welcome to the Little Gateley Fete, everyone!’ I turned, and saw him standing on a hay bale, in chinos and a blue polo shirt, clutching a megaphone. ‘My wife Caroline and I hope that you’ll all have a really wonderful time. It’s all in a very good cause—the People’s Dispensary for Sick Animals. So do please spend as much as you can!’ The crowd looked dutifully appreciative and attentive. What a benign figure he cut, I thought. I’d seen him with a megaphone before, of course. He’d looked rather different then as he shouted ‘Shame!’ at a startled-looking girl on a black pony, the planes of his face twisted with rage. And now, here he was, circulating in friendly fashion, meeting and greeting, patting children and pressing the flesh. He took part in the slow bicycle race and sportingly submitted to having wet sponges thrown at him in the Aunt Sally.

‘Come on, folks!’ he shouted. ‘How often do you get the chance to do this to a politician?!’ He was in his element—the good-egg country squire, entertaining the locals. And he never once looked over at me. I knew what he was doing, of course. He was letting me know that whatever had happened between us in the past, my presence didn’t affect him. I decided not to seek him out yet—I would wait. As the band played the opening chords of ‘Scarborough Fair’ I heard the church clock chime a quarter past three.

‘And now,’ Caroline announced with the megaphone, ‘we’re going to start the highlight of the afternoon—the dog show—in the small arena there at the end of the lawn. I’d like to tell you that we’re very lucky in having Miranda Sweet, the animal behaviourist from Animal Crackers, adjudicating for us today. So, for anyone who’d like to watch it, the “Waggiest Tail” category will be starting in five minutes.’

‘Thanks for the nice intro,’ I said, as we walked towards the ring with Herman.